The Chorus of an Old House

"After his wife left with all her clothes and the children's clothes and toys, Morgan continued to go to work and come home, though the house was empty and he had no one to talk to. In the evenings, he stood at his windows with binoculars and watched the passage of his neighbors through their rooms."
At twilight he stared out from his daughters rocking chair. The creaks of the floorboards filling the house of its only sound. His eyes wandered longingly beyond the chorus of his old house and dusty, spotted window.
His gaze followed the autumn leaves as they spilled from his gutter to the pavement below where they carried on in the passing wind. His eyes sought beyond the scattering leaves onto a lady brushing her hair in her pale light of the window. He saw her eyes fall deeply into the mirror and that mirror reflecting even deeper back into her form.
Morgan's eyes searched even further to the distant city scape that seemed to be draining the glow of twilight into squared windows like his own.
The creaks of the house a quiet hum now as Morgan's eyes rested upon the horizon of his place.
His place of a setting sun and the gentle birth of a thousand more.